


All The Words We Won't Say

by cardinalrachelieu



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 11:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10638588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrachelieu/pseuds/cardinalrachelieu
Summary: Azriel slips behind the bar and dips low to pull a fresh bottle of whiskey from the bottom shelf, voice level when he speaks. “Is there any reason as to why you’re getting drunk on a Tuesday afternoon?” He sounds disinterested, but Cassian knows better.With calloused hands better suited for wielding a blade, Azriel pops the cork and refills Cassian’s glass—the one he abandoned half an hour ago when he’d decided that pouring was a waste of time. He stands by that decision. Pouringisa waste of time. Still, he doesn’t move his cup, watching with a hardened gaze as the liquid sloshes and settles.Cassian presses his teeth together until he feels a sharp twinge in his jaw. “Leave it alone, Az.” There’s no warmth in his tone; the camps stole it away, like they always do. He ought to be used to it by now—the aching exhaustion he always feels after one of his trips to see the war-lords. And yet…-----Prompt fill: “Is there any reason as to why you’re getting drunk on a Tuesday afternoon?” + Cazriel





	

**Author's Note:**

> i know, i know -- the title is shit, but it's the best i've got. i will _HAPPILY_ change it if one of y'all suggests a better one.

Bottles were meant to be broken.

That was a lie. But better bottles than heads.

Of all the degrading, vile, foolish acts of resistance… 

Cassian upends the flask, whiskey stinging the still-healing cut on his lip, liquid fire scorching his throat on its way down. When the last drops land on his tongue, Cassian growls and hurls the bottle against the moonstone pillar behind him, nearly missing completely—but the bottle finds its mark, shards of glass singing out as they clatter to the floor in a furious symphony.

“Your aim’s off today, brother,” a familiar voice muses, trailed by a winged figure stepping out from a shadow Cassian had thought belonged to one of the archways. 

He should be used to it by now, but Azriel’s ability to blend into rock and earth, as though the elements were merely an extension of himself, still sets Cassian on edge. He’s grateful to call the Shadowsinger his friend—but, if there’s one thing Cassian detests above all else, it’s being caught off guard. Maybe with another five hundred years of training he’ll figure out how to sense his brother sooner rather than later.

Probably not, but it’s worth a try. 

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” he grits, leashing the animal inside his chest—the one that wants to bite and claw and wound whomever it can reach. He has to remind himself that he’s home now; that he can stop fighting.

It’s a reflex that’s never really left him—the drive to strike someone down before they can do worse to him. Pain and defeat were his teachers, shattered bones and pools of blood their lessons.  _ Hurt them before they can hurt you,  _ they whispered. Years and years they’d coached him—promised him glory if he’d only give himself over to the rage. And he did. He’d learned to temper it, channel it,  _ use _ it.

Seven siphons. Seven markers of the agony he could unleash on anyone he pleased. Seven reminders to give him a wide berth. And, unfortunately, seven reasons to challenge him.

Azriel slips behind the bar and dips low to pull a fresh bottle of whiskey from the bottom shelf, voice level when he speaks. “Is there any reason as to why you’re getting drunk on a Tuesday afternoon?” He sounds disinterested, but Cassian knows better.

With calloused hands better suited for wielding a blade, Azriel pops the cork and refills Cassian’s glass—the one he abandoned half an hour ago when he’d decided that pouring was a waste of time. He stands by that decision. Pouring  _ is _ a waste of time. Still, he doesn’t move his cup, watching with a hardened gaze as the liquid sloshes and settles.

Cassian presses his teeth together until he feels a sharp twinge in his jaw. “Leave it alone, Az.” There’s no warmth in his tone; the camps stole it away, like they always do. He ought to be used to it by now—the aching exhaustion he always feels after one of his trips to see the war-lords. And yet… 

Azriel nods, frowning a bit as he considers his options. He pats the bar twice, as if to bid Cassian farewell, but then—

Cassian won’t turn his head—though, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Azriel sliding onto the stool beside him. “What do you think you’re doing?” He works his jaw, keeps his eyes forward as he takes a sip of liquid fire, face scrunching up when the alcohol seeps into the gash on his lower lip.

“Having a drink.” Azriel’s voice is easy, patient. 

Cassian doesn’t deserve it—doesn’t deserve to have someone keep him company after the things he’s done. 

Crunching bones. Piercing screams. The sounds still ring in his ears, and it makes his stomach twist in knots. The camps encourage him to let loose a brutality that’s been left to fester, a sadistic compulsion rotting him from within. He doesn’t regret what he does—maybe he should, but he doesn’t. To keep the ones he loves safe from harm, he’d do worse. He’d do much, much worse.

Not for the first time, Cassian wonders if he and the war-lords aren’t so different; wonders if his cruelty has an upper limit; wonders how far he’ll go to protect his court, his family.

Azriel steals a glass from the end of the bar and fills it with a healthy pour of the fancy whiskey Mor will, undoubtedly, be upset they wasted.

Cassian grunts, leans forward to rest his elbows against the counter, brings his glass up to his lips. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Probably.” Azriel sighs, shifts his wings to get comfortable. “But I’m thirsty.”

This time, Cassian does spare Azriel a glance, and something clenches inside his chest, in the space where his soul ought to be. “Suit yourself,” he mumbles, draining his tumbler in one big gulp. 

Azriel does the same, reaching for the bottle to pour them both another round.

When the liquid goes still, Cassian turns, setting his jaw to trap the mess of words that threaten to spill out of him. Instead he raises his glass—hopes it’s enough, hopes his brother understands.

Azriel looks at him, presses his lips together—and, without saying a word, brings his glass up to meet Cassian’s.

The resulting  _ clink _ is a sound holier than any of the bells in any of the temples in all of Prythian, and, for the first time that day, Cassian feels some of the tension coiled at the base of his neck melt away. 

Azriel’s mouth pulls to the side, and Cassian knows it’s not an accident that his brother let him see the expression.

_ Thank you for staying,  _ he wants to say, but the sounds die in his chest, muzzled by a pride he’d like to cut out of himself as though it were a tumor.

Azriel only nods.  _ I’ll always stay. _

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to [cass-ian](http://cass-ian.tumblr.com) for the prompt!
> 
> join me on [tumblr](http://yalenayardeen.tumblr.com) for more angst and repressed emotions


End file.
